50 Shades of Mr J
by NotMarge
Summary: She thought she was making a difference. And she was. Just not the difference she thought. Pre-Suicide Squad movie-verse. Not based on '50 Shades of Grey'. Strong T for torture, disturbing themes, occasional language.
1. 50 Shades of Mr J

I do not own Suicide Squad.

Trailer's freakin' me out tho.

50 Shades of Mr. J.

* * *

Her bright blue eyes fluttered open slowly.

It was quiet. Still.

She didn't know exactly where she was.

Couldn't remember how she had gotten here.

Or why.

Only that she was.

And she was.

Harleen Frances Quinzel lay stretched out flat on a cold metal surface.

Her white lab coat still draped over her starched white blouse, gray pencil skirt. Black pumps scuffed and dirty but still on her feet.

Leather strap jammed between her teeth, thick and taut.

Her feet that she realized were strapped down helpless on the table.

Just like the rest of her.

And could not move.

Her thick black glasses sat only slightly askew on her face.

Through them she saw movement in the shadows.

And turned her head slowly.

And saw him.

In all his mad glory.

Before, in Arkham, he had been tightly straitjacketed like nearly every other patient.

Bright green hair slicked back, pale face darkly curious and intent upon hers.

Dully metaled teeth.

Quiet, restrained behavior.

Full of muted remorse and sorrowful childhood stories.

But this, this was an entirely different creature altogether.

He sauntered slowly toward her, arms spread wide.

Pride radiating from his very essence.

Reddened lips, split bloodily in a broad grin.

And still that bright green hair.

His slender torso was bare, all lithe tattooed muscle and sheened sweat.

And . . .

 _leather?_

. . . pants slung low on his hips, boots jauntily brushing the concrete floor as he approached.

"Don't recognize me, Dr. Quinzel?"

His voice was lighthearted, even jovial as he addressed her.

And she, attempting civility, addressed him as she always had.

As best as she could through the mouth restraint.

"Of course I recognize you, Mr. J."

He had claimed during their sessions to not be able to remember his name.

They, even the Batman, who always seemed to know more than he should, only knew him as The Joker.

But, she had mused, that seemed to throw into harsh light the monster he had been.

Not the reformed man he could become.

So she had chosen to attempt another tactic.

Mr. J., she always called him.

Respectful. Dignified.

And he had responded right away.

"You know, Dr. Quinzel, I have a feeling about you."

She had smiled warmly.

Be courteous and responsive to courtesy.

"Really, Mr. J.? And what is that?"

He had smiled diffidently.

"I believe in you. You strike me as different than those other doctors. I believe that if anybody can help me, make me a better version of me, it would be you."

 _I believe in you._

And she had restrained her smile, glowing in her chest as it was.

And responded professionally.

"Well, thank you, Mr. J. We shall see what we can do."

And now here he was.

As she had never seen him before.

Even through her sheer terror, he was beautiful.

Darkly, terrifyingly beautiful.

And she ached.

With love.

And growing fear and dread as he approached.

Nimbly lifting metal contraptions in his hands, one inexplicably gloved in protective purple rubber, as he reached the head of her confinement.

He grinned and tapped the metal experimentally together.

She saw sparks, heard the zap of electricity.

And saw the blood in his smile.

"Are you going to kill me?"

Her whisper was filled with dread and apprehension.

He paused as if savoring her frightful, helpless state.

And responded.

Cheerfully. Dismissively.

"Oh, I'm not gonna kill ya."

The casual statement did not comfort her.

Because his hungry, shark's smile had widened.

"I'm just gonna hurt ya." He paused again, relishing her blossoming panic. "Really, really bad."

She moaned as he raised the live electricity.

"But . . . why? I . . . helped you escape. I . . . I love you."

A gleam crept into his already terrifyingly winning smile.

"Because it's what I _do_ , my dear. Because it's who I _am_. Your pain will bring me joy. Your screams will bring me laughter. You, my dear, will become my dancing harlequin, my girl on fire, my comedic station break."

A tear slipped down her cheek.

And then he touched the live wires to her pale, delicate collarbones.

And she found out she _could_ move.

Jittering. Jiving. Twisting.

On the sizzling, screaming nerve endings of electric, torturous mayhem.

To the haunting sounds of his ringing laughter.

* * *

 **Ok, this might be all right or all wrong. I do know there are multiple origin storylines for Harley Quinn.**

 **I also know I flipped out when I saw in the trailer, it's Harleen that he's torturing.**

 **Hence the story. You know, so I can sleep in peace.**

 **Everybody appreciates feedback. Leave a review if you like.**


	2. Flashbacks on the Flashburner

I do not own Suicide Squad.

Trailer's freakin' me out tho.

50 Shades of Mr. J.

Flashbacks on the Flashburner

* * *

"You see, he's rather insane and very dangerous," her mentor doctor informed her calmly. "No one can even figure out his name or origins or anything regarding his past. Very frustrating case."

She was intrigued, to say the least.

Pored over the nearly nonexistent case file.

Robbery. Explosives. Murder. Dismemberment.

Repeatedly pursued and finally caught by the Batman.

Shuttled off to Arkham Asylum after a hasty and prefunctionary trial.

Shipped off and shut away.

To be gawked at, peered into.

Only by the bravest (or darkest of amused) of specialists.

And none of the so-called top expert psychiatrists in Arkham could crack his enigma.

Riddler. Hatter. Penguin.

Easily profiled and picked apart by comparison.

But not this one. Not a flinch. Not a nudge. Not a blink.

Nothing.

Sometimes he raged against them, spouted nonsensical threats and cackled in that deranged, wild way of his.

Other times he sat sullen and petulant, almost child-like in his disgust and irritation of them and their persistant clipboards and questions.

But no matter what, no one could touch him. The real him.

Not even truth serum could get him to divulge his secrets.

It only served to release a torrent of impressively loud and shrilly crowed Cher sing-a-longs and lists upon lists of pizza delivery hotlines.

Intrigued, so professionally intrigued.

She hounded her mentor doctor relentlessly until he gave in.

Cautioned her.

And moved on to more treatable patients.

And left Harleen Frances Quinzel to make her own acquintance of The Joker.

* * *

She was still strapped to the table.

Clothing damp underneath her.

With sweat.

Tears.

And other, in the throes of nerve-rending torture, other, less speakable, bodily fluids.

He didn't seem offended by it.

On the contrary, he seemed rather joyful and upbeat.

Grinned at her, even. Waved from across the dim room.

"Oh, there you are! Wonderful! I was starting to get bored, Dr. Quinzel. Enjoy your nap?"

She trembled as he rose from a stout, wooden chair, heavy and studded with rusted metal screws.

"Please, please, let me go. I . . . didn't mean to upset you. I only wanted to help."

She hadn't begged in a long time, so broken and weak.

Not since her childhood and those more disturbed boyfriends of her mother.

The chillingly mad, chillingly beautiful man before her shook his head.

"Oh, no, dear doctor. I'm not ready to let you go. I like you too much."

 _He likes me. He really likes me._

It was sick but it filled her with surreshes of hope and possibility.

Then he picked up a knife.

"I like your pain too much. I like your screams."

Her lower lip trembled.

"But . . . but . . . why?"

He grinned again and she felt warm and cold at the same time.

Then he cut loose with a rolling, wickedly wild cackle that made her strain away from her restraints, shudder in terror.

Then he stopped. Leaned down close to her pale face.

Breath sickly sweet, barbeque and blood and death, into her face.

And spoke quietly. Which was somehow worse than his previous mad laughter.

" _You_ , my dear, my prancing, capering harlequin. There's something special about you. Your screams are symphony. And your cries and pleas are opera."

And then he went to work.

And oh how she screamed.

* * *

 **Hey, everybody! Yep, dropped off the face of the planet again. I would apologize but you know life. Sometimes it's butterflies and sunbeams. And sometimes it's a deathdrop into an airless mineshaft.**

 **Okay, that was a bit excessive. Or astutely accurate.**

 **Anyway, thanks to brigid1318 and DinahRay for reviewing the first chapters. You always seem to give me a chance. Thanks :)**

 **Thanks also to BlackButlerFan13, DocQuinn, and doggy bye for adding your support to this tale.**


	3. Fare Thee Well

I do not own Suicide Squad.

Trailer's freakin' me out tho.

50 Shades of Mr. J.

Fare Thee Well

* * *

Harleen Frances Quinzel.

Trash. Street urchin. Abused, beaten little child.

Whore of a mother. Absent father.

Wanting to be more.

More than just trash. More than just used up and spit out by those random men her mother brought home as 'uncles'.

Smart girl. Hard and scrabble girl.

Fight and scrap and never give up girl.

Making it all the way through school, ridiculed and thin and worthless as she was.

Finding escape and talent in gymnastics.

Using it to advance herself, win competitions without a cheering sections, any support at all.

Scoring scholarships, scoring grants.

To college. Higher learning.

Education.

A place where she could reinvent herself.

Make something of herself.

Call her own shots.

And become better.

Wrapping herself up tight in her new identity.

The identity of a young woman.

Intelligent. Refined. In control.

Always in control.

And never hurt by anyone.

Not ever again.

Not until him.

Not until The Joker.

* * *

She regained consciousness slowly.

And found she was alone.

The straps were gone.

The blinding light off.

The room quiet.

She wondered if she were dead and stuck in purgatory.

Then she sat up.

Her clothes were the same.

Her sore body ached.

And she was alone.

Carefully, trying not to fall or make noise, she slid down from the metal table.

She had kicked off her shoes in the throes of her torture.

They lay at the foot of the now bare table.

She stared at them.

And found she did not care about them at all.

Barefoot, she padded gingerly into the interconnecting room.

Saw him.

Slouched in a velvet burgundy highbacked chair, draped in thin darkness.

"Mr. J.?"

He did not acknowledge her presence, continuing to stare out the window at the black night, alit by the lights of the city.

She should run.

She knew she should.

For her safety, for her freedom.

Now, while he was . . . whatever he was.

But he looked so unhappy, so despondent.

So alone.

Like her.

She approached him slowly.

"Mr. J.?"

Her voice was raspier than usual.

She supposed it was from all the screaming she had done.

At his purple gloved hands.

Still, she approached.

"Mr. J.? Are you okay?"

He shrugged.

"It's not fun anymore. All the fun is gone. And now I'm bored."

He sounded somewhat like a petulant child whose birthday party was all over.

Cake eaten, balloons deflated, riding ponies packed up.

She reached the chair.

"What fun, Mr. J.?"

He never even looked at her.

"You. You're no fun anymore. You scream and nothing. You cry and nothing. You bleed and . . ."

He gestured vaguely.

"Nothing."

His joy.

His happiness.

His fiendish glee.

Over her pain.

It was gone.

And she felt confusion.

She felt sorrow.

She felt regret.

He was unhappy and it was all her fault.

"What can I do, Mr. J.? How can I help?"

He shrugged again, as if nothing would ever make him laugh again.

"Aside from throwing yourself into a vat of acid? Nothing."

She knelt, one pale hand on his . . .

 _Not leathered, just cloth. Soft, inviting cloth._

. . . knee.

He continued.

"Oh, what's the point anyway? If I torture you, cut you, electrocute you, you'll just tell me you love me again. It's disgusting. It's maddening. It's ridiculous."

His previously full, maniacal voice was hollow. Empty.

Without life.

Her sorrow deepened.

"You can go," he said quietly.

She stayed still.

"Go on, Dr. Quinzel. Leave me alone. It's over."

And, for lack of a better idea, she went.

Limped home.

Down abandoned streets and past desolate parks.

When her path did cross people, she ducked her head and looked away.

She did not interact with them.

She did not want to.

And when she made it home, she realized that it wasn't hers anymore.

Drab, plain furniture.

Freezer full of frozen single meals.

Nice, clean art adorning the walls.

All very polished and polite and well-meaning.

She knew she didn't want it.

That she wanted something else.

Something she didn't have.

Something, someone, that had been taken from her.

Or worse.

 _She_ had been sent away from _it_.

From him.

And she sat alone in a corner in the dark.

And let it fill her up.

* * *

 **Hello again.**

 **Yeah, deranged I know. And it's only going to get more so from here on out. Up for it?**

 **Thanks to LoreenaGrGoddess, DinahRay (always so loyal, sweetie), and my mystery guests for reviewing.**

 **Also, I absolutely do _not_ condone or get off on this kind of disturbing behavior. But I didn't write the comic or the screenplay, did I? Nope, I'm just using what's in my head. **

**Okay, rant over. :)**

 **And by the way, gentle readers, if I mess up on stuff, tell me. I don't mind. And if I mess up on stuff badly enough, write your own and make yourself happy. After all, that's what fanfic is all about, yeah? :)**


	4. A Desire for Color

I do not own Suicide Squad.

Trailer's freakin' me out tho.

50 Shades of Mr. J.

A Desire for Color

* * *

She sat alone in her bland apartment.

On her colorless sofa.

Listening to the endless, ceaseless quiet.

Thinking of him.

And the way he used to talk. To her.

"You're so _pale_ , Dr. Quinzel. So drawn and pale. And your clothes, all black and white. They don't seem to suit you all. Is that what they make you wear here?"

She should be offended, incensed.

 _He_ was the patient and _she_ the physician here.

Not the other way around.

She should be offended.

Except he seemed to honestly, really care.

He seemed to _notice_.

And not just her breasts or her ass like all the other male doctors here.

He just noticed her.

And cared.

"If you don't mind my saying so, Doctor, you could do with a little color."

And she started to smile.

Then stifled it professionally because the camera above them was watching, watching, always watching.

And redirected the subject matter.

"Well, thank you for your consideration, Mr. J. I shall take it under advisement."

And now it was the Joker, all straightjacketed up, who smiled.

Just a little.

Because he cared.

She could tell.

* * *

She thought of him.

Him and all his colors.

His gruesome smile.

His rollicking laughter.

When she was strapped to that metal table with the light blinding her eyes.

Bright red blood. Running down her milk white flesh.

Adding color.

Color to his dancing, writhing harlequin.

And she moved into the kitchen

Picked up a knife from the cutlery block and sat down on the floor, ankles . . .

 _Criss-cross applesauce, children . . ._

. . . crossed.

Stared fixedly at her left forearm.

Grasped the the knife in her right hand a little tighter.

And drew the sharp blade across her tender flesh.

Without a flinch.

Without a blink.

Without a sound.

And lifted it just as slowly.

Set it down on the linoleum.

And stared at her previously flawless arm, now thinly dripping crimson.

Hair loose, hanging down around her face.

Her expressionless face.

And frowned.

It didn't feel the same.

Pain, yes.

Sting, yes. Burn, yes.

Blood, yes. Bright red.

But not the same.

The pain, the fear, the confusion, the helplessness.

With his eyes.

Those glinting, flashing eyes above her.

Wild laughter ringing in her ears.

Here it was quiet.

Still.

Bland.

Colorless.

There with him.

Green, red, blue.

Manic, taunting, full of glee.

It wasn't the same.

She sighed.

Maybe another spot.

Leg. Stomach. Face.

So she tried them all.

One at a slow time.

And in the end, bathed in a warm bath swirled with pink ribbons of her own blood.

And a dissatisfied heart.

* * *

 **Nope, not a fan of self-injury either. Just laying some groundwork here.**

 **Anyway, thanks to DinahRay and DocQuinn for the reviews.**

 **Thanks also to asantos11300, jennamichelle85, Jade the Wizard, hawkgirlAFT for adding your support here.**


	5. Echoes of Whisperings

I do not own Suicide Squad.

Trailer's freakin' me out tho.

50 Shades of Mr. J.

Echoes of Whisperings

* * *

Twisting, twisting, twisting. Twisting and turning. Turning and twisting.

She had been a celebrated gymnast.

Competitions, awards, complete devotion to her craft.

It was how she had finally broken away from the strangulations of her poverty-striken, abuse-frequented childhood.

No support, no help.

Just her, her focus, and her determination.

Plus, it put her in a zone of sorts.

A zone where she could forget the miseries of her life.

The indecencies and shames done to her.

A zone where there was nothing but the twistings and turnings and bendings of her lithe, superbly trained and practiced body.

It lent her a calm she had not felt before or after.

It lent her . . . peace.

Even now in times of extreme duress and anxiety, she wrapped and knotted her sheets up.

Hung them from industrial hooks drilled into her ceiling.

Turned out all the lights.

And twisted, twisted, turned within the comfort and safety of their accomodating loops.

In the dead of night.

Until peace and calm sought her out.

Stroking her mind with soothing tendrils of sanity.

And clarity.

* * *

"Most people are just so worried about what others think of them, they live their whole lives trapped in a box."

So wise to the ways of humanity. So wise. And so truthful, was Mr. J..

"Take you for instance, Dr. Quinzel. What do you do for fun? For entertainment? For . . . release?"

The suggestiveness of that comment caused her pale skin to blush against her wishes.

She smiled and spoke lightly to cover her rising blood.

"Oh, I don't know, Mr. J.. A cup of tea and a good book, perhaps?"

What she didn't say was that the thing that really made her feel satisfied was her twice weekly Krav Maga lessons.

And her time at the gun range.

She plastered the face of every bully, every intimidator, every abusive boyfriend of her mother's on the target, on her sparring partner.

And felt exhilaration and justification when she emerged victorious.

And when they beat her, she resolved to win next time. Make them pay.

Of course, that wasn't professional talk.

So she left that part out.

And her twistings and turnings, encased in looped sheets, suspended in thin air, of course.

And stuck with the book.

Which was true.

And the tea.

Which was also true.

Her patient smiled knowingly nevertheless.

"And what about you, Mr. J.? What are your preferred pasttimes?"

His gentle smile became a shark's grin.

"Oh, the usual. Death. Dismemberment. Anarchy."

And so fast she almost missed it, he winked.

At her.

Slyly. Coyly. Flirtatiously.

Her blood raced. And chilled.

And before she could give herself away, she set her face professionally.

And redirected herself to her writing pad.

"That's interesting."

Indeed.

* * *

Another sleepless, lonely, deep night.

She was shuffling her solitare deck.

Aimlessly thinking of him.

That smile, that body, that face.

And found herself face to face with the joker card.

Capering, whimsical, wild joker.

Joker.

It didn't look like him at all.

Black and red patterned costume.

Split doubled belled hat.

Impossibly curled and pointed shoes.

But through the shoddily printed artwork, she caught a glimpse of his face.

His true face.

Manical smile.

That sly wink of his.

And she heard his laugh. Felt those rubber gloved hands stroking her face again.

Felt the surge of electricity coarsing through her body.

Suddenly she threw down the rest of the cards and tore viciously into the mocking card.

Ripping it, shredding it.

Til it lay in tatters upon the table.

And she put her head in her hands.

And sobbed.

When she was once again all emptied out, she gathered up all the little pieces of the Joker card.

And went in search of the scotch tape.

And when all the little pieces had been painstakingly put back together, she stared fixedly at it anew.

With her red, bloodshot eyes.

The color patterns filled her mind. His voice filled her mind.

 _My dancing harlequin._

It caught in her brain. Clung there, burrowed deep. And took control.

She dug desperately in a drawer for the colors she needed. Found them. And slowly, exactingly, began her work.

 _Dancing._

She could have scratched it out in minutes, but she wanted to get the lines just right, the colors perfectly saturated.

 _Harlequin._

So it took a bit longer. Even deeper into the dark night. But for once she didn't mind.

 _Harlequin._

She was focused. She was content. She was happy.

 _Harleyquinn._

She was becoming something else.

 _Harley Quinn._

Someone else.

* * *

The next day, she found a tattoo parlor.

And showed them her right forearm.

And made it permanent.

Forever.

* * *

 **Instead of cutting, some people choose to color themselves. And they make these beautiful pieces of art on themeslves. I really respect them for their efforts to heal instead of harm.**

 **Anyway, thanks to asantos11300, DinahRay, and loreenagrgoddess for your excellent reviews. I really appreciate you guys! :D**

 **Thanks also analuciapech for adding your support to this tale.**


	6. The Light and The Laughter

I do not own Suicide Squad.

I think I'm a little obsessed right now. Save me?

50 Shades of Mr. J.

The Light and The Laughter

* * *

"Good morning, Doctor Quinzel. So glad to see you back."

She gritted her teeth, subconsciously reaching out and grazing the concealed black and red pattern on her forearm.

And turned.

The good Doctor, dignified and composed with his files and his clipboard, bore down on her.

Her, alone in the sparse, white painted hall of Arkham Asylum.

Grinning licentiously.

There was no other way he _could_ grin.

As his eyes immediately traveled down to her breasts, carefully cloaked in her white starched blouse underneath her white lab coat.

"Heard you've been on a little vacation," he continued, coyly attempting casual conversation. "You should have called me. We could have . . . collaborated together over drinks."

 _Vacation_ , she thought sardonically. _Not hardly_.

She kept her face carefully blank as he leered.

"Thank you, Doctor Elderidge," she replied formally. "But I needed time to myself. To gather my thoughts after the Joker breakout."

He nodded sagely.

"Understandable in this profession. Very easy to get too involved with the concerns of our patients. It's happened to me on occasion. If you ever desire a . . . confidante, my door is always open."

Every word was carefully chosen to resonate as professionally as possible. Yet the underlying meanings slithered across her mind like slimy, unwelcome trails of that which he probably wanted to pump her full of.

He was one of the most celebrated doctors of Arkham, yet for all his posturing and apparent professionalism, her childhood-honed senses red-flagged him as one of the creepy, sneaky, perverted scumbags who would bring her mother flowers and lurk in secrets corners for vulnerable little girls.

And at the same time, to openly spurn his advances would be answered with thwarts and stagnations to her career. To her job.

She had to be careful. Choose her words wisely. Her actions.

So she stayed still, waiting for him to go.

Waiting for him to leave her in peace.

He did so.

Moving past her with a warm, wormy nod.

And she began to take a deep, relieved breath.

Too soon.

He brushed a hand casually along her shoulder in concealed invite.

 _Her thin veneer of professionalism snapped as self-preservation reared its feral, snarling head and she flew into action._

 _Grabbing his wrist, twisting it painfully even as she brought up her closer elbow and smashed him in the face with it._

 _He crumpled, blood spurting from his broken nose and she eased him into a nearby wheelchair reserved for catatonic patients, pinching the pentiultimate nerve in his neck that relieved him of his immediate consciousness._

 _Glancing around, she saw nobody else in attendance in the asylum hallway. Left their papers trampled beneath her feet._

 _And exited her captive from the building and into the trunk of the waiting car rumbling in the alley._

 _Approaching the front of the car confidently and opening the passenger door._

 _Sliding in, she turned to look into his waiting, expectant face._

 _And beamed happily._

" _How did you know I was going to need you to be here now?"_

 _The Joker returned her gaze, as chillingly charming as suited Grim Death._

" _Harley, my dear, I told you before. I just had a feeling about you."_

 _And off they sped, leaving in their wake, the stench of smoking, burned rubber._

 _He drove with mad glee to the abandoned building with its cracked, dirty windows where he had taken her to free her from the constraints of her suffocatingly dull, colorless existence ._

 _Together, they prepared the room._

 _Strapped the disgusting scuzzbag down and turned on the electricity._

 _Powered all the way up._

 _She moved back, ready and willing to watch The Joker torture her nemesis for her, relieve him of his smarmy and lurid self importance._

 _She had no desire to be on that table again, feeling the sears and shreds and sizzles of pain The Joker had inflicted upon her._

 _But she did desire that same intense attention, that same lasered focus he had blanketed her with._

 _When it was only her and him._

 _And resolved to wait until the time came again._

 _It did so soon enough._

 _For when the repulsive, slimy sleaze awoke and began garbling and struggling against his bonds, her heart pounded with a thunderous statacco beat._

 _As she waited for the marvelously devilish man she loved to begin his symphony upon his prey._

 _But he did not._

 _Instead, he turned to her._

 _A sly grin painting his scarred, ghoulish visage._

" _Ready to take the next step, my beautiful harlequin?"_

 _And she felt on fire with excitement. Anticipation. Dark delight._

" _I . . . I don't know how, Mr. J.."_

 _He grinned wolfishly._

" _I can show you. I can show you how to make him dance for you. How to sing."_

 _She took a step. Then another. And another._

 _Until she was in his arms._

 _Facing the helpless, misery-deserving bastard laying there on the table._

 _And he, her garishly painted creator, was behind her, reaching around on either side of her slender body._

 _Slipping the electroshock controls into her open hands._

 _Gently, tenderly guiding her movements._

 _And surreshing in her ear._

" _Make him suffer, my lovely, pale harleyquinn. Make him pay."_

 _And he did, their victim, screaming and bucking and dancing for her._

 _As she gasped._

 _Heart racing, blood pumping._

 _She jerked the probes off his smoking flesh, reflexively bringing them up close to her mouth in shock._

 _Felt The Joker grinning behind her, gazing at her alit, glowing, open face._

" _Hmm, interesting."_

 _The Joker murmured, pointedly sniffing the air and craning his neck toward the trembling, unhinged victim on the table._

" _What?" she breathed._

 _He hmphfed down in his throat, something that wanted to be a laugh._

 _As of yet unleashed._

" _It appears the good doctor does not, in fact, shit gold."_

 _An unexpected giggle, lighthearted and free, burst from her._

 _As she relished his humor, reveled in the perfection of the moment._

 _Then The Joker spoke again, focusing solely on her._

 _Only her._

 _Of the pale, unblemished flesh._

" _Does it feel good? The power? The control? The freedom? "_

 _She didn't speak, couldn't speak._

 _Only managed a bare nod._

" _Good."_

 _Felt him press closer to her._

 _All of him._

 _To all of her._

 _And she, on fire and her own sweet sizzle, pressed back._

" _Now," he whispered, lips nearly touching her flesh. "Do it again."_

 _And she did. Again. And again. And again._

 _To the sweet sound of someone else's agony and pain._

 _Wrapped in the embrace of the raucously cackling Joker._

Watching the good Doctor Elderidge walk away from her down the hall.

Rubbing her painted forearm.

And daydreaming of seared, sorched flesh.

* * *

 **Yeah, yeah, a bit Dexter/Lumen perhaps. Well, not exactly. But hey, not less wickedly awesome. I hope.**

 **Thanks to DinahRay, asantos11300, KawaiiKitsune13 for continuing to review. Sweeties!**


	7. Coming To a Head

I do not own Suicide Squad.

I think I'm a little obsessed right now. Save me?

50 Shades of Mr. J.

Coming To a Head

* * *

"Get out of the car!" she screeched in a fit, slamming her hands down on the hood of The Joker's pristine sports car.

He glared at her irritation and disgust from behind the wheel.

And exited the still rumbling vehicle.

"You can't do what you did and then just _abandon_ me!" she screamed at him. "I can't eat, I can't sleep, I can't _think_!"

She had seen his car racing the streets, stalking him in a way, for days on her little motorcycle.

And now she had chased him down, caught him.

And he had chosen, so far, not to run her down.

So far.

Instead he stood before her, agog.

"What are you _talking_ about, Doctor?"

She felt herself coming apart at the seams. Being held together only by the blue blouse and jeans in which her trembling form was encased.

And ignored his question.

"Show me."

He stared at her.

" _What_?"

"Show me. I want to know what happened to you. I want to see it. I want to understand. I want to be part of it."

Joker glanced away for a moment then turned back, anger and frustration prevalent on his unnaturally colored face.

"Go away! Why won't you just go _away_?! I don't _care_ about you! I don't _love_ you! I don't _want_ you! I don't _need_ you! Go _away_!"

She shook her head, tears welling up.

"I can't. I love you."

She held up the gun she'd brought in one trembling hand.

"You've done something to me. I feel broken. I can't go on like this. All dead inside except when I'm with you. Or I think about you."

And pointed at his face.

"I'd rather die and have you die. Then go on like this anymore."

He stared into the face of the loaded gun.

Hesitated.

Then leaned into it almost.

And spoke airily, as if discussing which television program to marathon together for the evening. Instead of the metaphorical pin on which her broken soul balanced.

Even holding out his arms slightly as if in invite.

"Well, go ahead and kill me if you must, Dr. Quinzel. You're the one with all the power here."

She hesitated, quaking more than ever underneath her skin.

The Joker grinned madly into the barrel of the gun. Addressing her again.

"Doesn't it feel good? The power?"

It did feel good.

Just for once.

And she knew again that he cared.

Cared enough to call to attention that power, that power she so badly needed to feel all her life.

And never had.

And he gave it to her, The Joker.

Gave it to her when he really didn't have to.

For real this time, not just in a desperate daydream.

And at possible cost to his own self.

She lowered the gun slowly, moving toward him.

He, The Joker, remained still, for once appearing to be the one hypnotized.

As she kissed him. Full upon those discolored, tantalizing lips. One trembling hand stroking his pale, pale cheek.

He didn't move.

Until he did, just a little.

And pressed those sumptuous lips back to hers.

And she soared.

Seconds before he burst into action.

Snatching the gun away with one hand.

Backhanding her to the ground with the other.

In a sudden, violent rage.

And roaring in her face.

"I'm not your loving, gentle, cotton candy boyfriend, Doctor! You should have taken the shot when you had it, you stupid bitch!"

He held up the firearm to his temple now, mocking her.

"If I kill myself, blow my own brains out, will _that_ finally make you go away?! Or will you follow me into Hell, dipping your finger in water to quench my thirst?!"

She peered up at him from her submissive crumple on the ground.

She should hate him.

Hate him for what he was, what he had done. Was doing.

Get up, walk away. Leave him there making a fool of himself.

Walk away and pick up the pieces of her life.

Rebuild herself.

Move on.

She knew she _should_.

But she didn't _want_ to rebuild herself in anything but _his_ image.

Or an image befitting him.

"Yes, Mr. J.," she replied quaverously. "I'll follow you anywhere."

He looked at her quietly and calmly.

Which was even more frightening than anything else she had ever experienced from him before.

"Then you are more crazy than I have ever or will ever be, Dr. Quinzel."

She lay on the ground, the scenario familiar in its shame and humiliation.

Her entire childhood had been like this.

Pushed down, submissive to others.

And now as an adult, again.

He stared at her shuddering and trembling on the asphalt.

And suddenly and without any provocation, offered her his hand.

"Ah, now, it's not that bad, Dr. Quinzel. Come on, get up, get up. That's it, my dear."

The abrupt change in his tone deepened her disquiet.

And quavering love.

Even as it soothed her.

 _He feels bad. For hitting me. He feels bad because he cares._

"I'm not the real enemy here, Doctor. You are. Your weakness. Your vulnerability. Your compulsive need for acceptance."

And she slowly took his hand and he pulled her to her feet.

"So long as you allow others to dictate your actions, you'll always be taken advantage of."

His eyes gleamed with madness.

And truth.

"But when you let go of all of your fears and constraints and decide to do and be whatever you choose to, then you will be free."

He let go of her hand. And gave her back the gun.

"Until you can aim and fire at anyone, _anyone_ , you will be weak and forever dominated by those willing to pull the trigger."

The metal felt heavy, unbelievably heavy, in her hand.

The Joker's eyes gleamed brighter, more feverishly than ever before.

"Pull. The. Trigger."

She raised the gun to his face once more and he hung before her, motionless once more.

Vulnerable.

Helpless.

Challenging.

She took a deep, shuddering breath.

And squeezed the trigger.

Right before the hammer fell, she moved the barrel mere inches to the right.

Dropping the beat cop taking slow, precise aim at the nape of The Joker's neck.

The shot rang out and Joker flinched at the deafening thunder and ringing his ear.

And looked back at the bleeding figure on the ground.

And back at Harleen.

Who had moved the gun again level with his nose.

"Hit me again," her voice held no uncertainty. "And I'll dead shot you without blinking."

He stared at her, aghast and for once, speechless.

Then, quick as a wink, knocked the gun out of her hand, grabbed the back of her neck.

Yanking her toward him.

Pressing his mouth to hers.

Kissing her.

Hard. Deeply. Passionately.

Her entire confused, yearning body and mind burst into flame.

Then he flung her away.

"Now that's more like it," he announced through his approving grin, wiping the back of one hand casually across his mouth.

She stood knocked askew, modest chest heaving, mouth slightly ajar.

"Joker! Don't move! Hands up!"

Without hesitation, drew a pistol from underneath his jacket, firing behind him without looking.

The partner of Harleen's downed target dropped without another sound.

The Joker reholstered his firearm and turned away.

"Get in the car, Harley."

She did.

* * *

 **Okay, honestly, this probably is nothing like the real scene.**

 **And I don't think her standing up to him is canon. But listen, guys, isn't it just a little juicier this way?**

 **And it's my speculation 'til August anyway so, meh ;)**

 **Thanks to DinahRay, asantos11300, and loreenagoddess for your awesome reviews!**

 **Thanks also to kawaii2blue, CapitalClassShip, and CrystalFalls1987 for adding your support to this mad thing.**


	8. Joyride

I do not own Suicide Squad.

I think I'm a little obsessed right now. Save me?

50 Shades of Mr. J.

Joyride

* * *

He drove like a maniac.

Which he was.

Like he didn't care whether or not he murdered everyone in his reckless path.

Which he didn't.

Breaking all the rules of the road, including a few that hadn't been invented yet.

But which would be soon. Just for him.

She, on the other hand, subtly clung to the handholds of the passenger seat mutely, trying not to exude sheer terror.

Trying to remain calm.

And exhuberantly, undeniably, _absolutely_ thrilled and titillated that she, and only she, was riding in the car with him.

He had _chosen_ her.

Invited her.

Just her.

And she had accepted.

And now here she sat.

In a speeding car. With the fugitive Joker.

Because he wanted her there.

And it was a bit more than overwhelming.

The inside of the high class sports car was a blinding white landscape of leather upholstery, chrome, and glowing dials and gauges.

There was even GPS system installed and functional. Which The Joker seemed intent on driving absolutely crazy by stubbornly ignoring every single sensible instruction it provided, no matter how many times it valiantly attempted to reroute him.

She didn't even know if it was set to their destination at all, wherever that was.

And he didn't seem to mind in the least. On the contrary, it seemed to heighten his gleeful mania.

A high tech, high quality, high speed vehicle for a man always on the edge of oblivion.

Which he was.

She felt slightly dizzy and discombobulated in the unearthly ambience of the seemingly glowing interior of the car.

And The Joker's presence.

Not the least of which was his mad joy which cut through her encroaching haze like a steamroller of hyperactivity and insanity.

The man himself shouting and cursing and cackling wildly in that chilling way of his.

She had reflexively latched her seat belt as he had revved the engine to flee the scene of their first mutual violent crime.

And in her mind's eye, had visualized him glancing over and scowling at her secured safety harness.

Whipping out a straight razor.

And causually slicing through the woven polyester in an unspoken, defiant command for her to be as wild and free and dangerous as him.

In reality he had not actually done so, so intent was he on harassing other drivers that he barely acknowledged her presence in the hotrod at all.

Clearly the man had no use for quietly, prim lady-like manners at this or any situation.

Obviously.

But that was okay for now.

He had invited her.

So she was welcome. She was sure.

Maybe.

Pretty sure.

In the meantime, The Joker was the ultimate road rage driver.

Wrenching the wheel this way and that, powering the gas to the floor and slamming on the brakes only seconds before disaster.

It was terrifying, panic-inducing, and, with a bit more than a twinge of thrill she had to admit, very exciting.

And so found herself smiling. Laughing.

It was so uninhibited, so lawless, so _free_.

And nobody was stopping them.

Why was nobody stopping them?

A shiny, richly berry-sheened turboed car racing through the streets of the city, boldly causing near collisions and catastrophes should have drawn the attention of some sort of law enforcement surely.

Especially with all the swerving, honking vehicles left in its screeching wake.

But for the time being, none did.

"Where are we going?" she questioned tentatively, somewhere between two garishly-lit banks and an overrun Starbucks.

He didn't answer, or even acknowledge her presence in the automobile.

The question might have been too boring for him to bother answering.

She tried again, momentarily releasing her death grip on a handhold to push her thick black glasses back up on her nose.

"Where did you get this car?"

Still no reply.

Only took a corner nearly on two wheels, leaving behind the raw stench of burned rubber.

"Are we going to kill someone?"

It was all she could think of to say.

And it finally elicited a response.

He whipped his green haired head in her immediate direction, snake sharp gaze lasering in on her face.

And grinned bloodily, maliciously.

Charmingly.

"Would you like to?"

He wasn't watching the street. He was driving too fast.

He could easily hit anybody at anytime.

But seemed to sense them, adjusting the car's trajectory, missing their bumpers and side mirrors by inches.

Or perhaps he didn't care at if they died in a fiery crash.

Which was why they lived.

She felt caught, captured in his gaze.

Knew the only correct response for him.

And found herself still unable to quite commit to it.

"No," she finally managed to reply nervously.

And watched the disappointment sour his volitile expression.

The second before he turned back to road, dismissing her presence yet again.

Which fractured her twisted up heart just a little more than before.

"You're no fun at all," he muttered, almost to himself. "When are you going to start being _fun_?"

She didn't reply, only gritted her teeth as he skidded around a little old bag lady pushing a junk laden grocery cart across a walkway.

Skidded _around_.

Not plowed through.

Because he chose to.

Because he did, in fact, have some good, redeeming qualities.

Of course he did.

She knew he did.

And for the moment, he was just enjoying himself. Having a good time.

She smiled adoringly at him.

He didn't notice.

* * *

 **Thanks to DinahRay, asantos11300, CrystalFalls1987, DocQuinn, loreenagrgoddess for those enthusiastic reviews!**

 **Thanks to Fra-Chan-18 and shikacloud for adding your support to this story. :)**

 **One more chapter to go, I think. Unless I get attacked by inspiration in the middle of the night. Which has been known to happen from time to time.**


	9. Over the Edge

I do not own Suicide Squad.

I'm just glad to have survived to the end of this story!

50 Shades of Mr. J.

Over the Edge

* * *

She backed up slowly, balls of her shoed feet on the walkway metal, heels out over the edge of the precipice.

Tears stung her eyes but she refused to let them fall.

He wouldn't like that, Mr. J. He wouldn't appreciate them at all, the sad, sappy tears.

She had seen his untimely death. The first one.

The one he had come back from.

And praised his bravery, his determination.

His strength.

And he, the vicious, uncompromising Clown Prince of Crime, had mocked her.

"I'm not your noble, fair haired knight here to rescue you, to be admired and fawned over, Harley! I'll abandon you without blinking an eye. I'll show you your own death if you don't back off. And it will be painful. And long."

She'd tried to stop. Loving and caring about him. She'd tried. But she couldn't.

And now she stood high above the vats of yellow-pale liquid.

Vaguely bubbling and reeking.

She stood so high.

So frightfully high.

With her Joker glaring disgustedly at her.

And made her decision.

"You said before the only thing I could do for you was to throw myself into a vat of acid."

He raised his eyebrows and set his expression in a noncommittal, uninterested kind of way. As if nothing she said or did mattered to him whatsoever.

As if she was only mildly amusing. Like a bug. That he would squash at his leisure.

She clenched her jaw at his flagrant disregard and continued.

"If you really don't care anything at all about me, then I'll just throw myself into this vat of . . . whatever the hell this is. And just drown. Then it'll be over."

The Joker shrugged.

"I wouldn't suggest it, my dear. You're more likely to miss and split your stupid little head open and leak your pretty little brains out all over the pool."

He grinned his metaled smile at her in challenge.

"But if you just feel you _must_ . . ."

He gestured vaguely.

". . . then by all means, fly right in. But I warn you . . . it hurts. I should know."

Glints of metal winked at her he as he very nearly growled his disdain at her feeble ploy to raise his humanity.

She stopped talking then.

There was nothing more for her to say.

She drank in every nuance and detail of his beautiful, hideous self for the last time.

And let gravity tilt her back.

Into empty nothingness. And the caustic, waiting, hungry liquid below.

She felt the rush of air, blond hair loose and flying around her face.

And she felt freedom.

Not wild exhilaration or surging fear.

But serenity. Peace.

Quiet, whispering freedom.

Pouring into her broken soul.

Dulling the weeping pain there.

Just before she hit the surface of the pool.

And knew no more.

* * *

Above her, unseen, The Joker stared in dull surprise at the space she had been.

Jumped.

She had jumped.

Oh, he had encouraged it, manipulated, pushed her to do it.

But he never thought she actually _would_.

Then he grunted and glared.

"Stupid, crazy bitch," he muttered in aggravation, flinging his jacket to the ground and setting his jaw against what was to come.

"Going to be the death of me."

And leapt, soared, out over the edge.

And down toward her.

Without the blink of an eye.

* * *

It hurt, of course, it did.

But dully, indifferently, like someone already burned once by the deadly chemicals.

Burned and scarred and survived.

Which he was.

He found her limp form somewhere in the thick sludge, floating like a dead, poisoned fish.

Knocked unconscious, just like he'd warned her.

Well, not just.

Pretty little brains still cooped up inside her stupid little blond head.

As if that mattered.

And he slowly brought her up.

White washed.

White washed and featureless.

As if reborn.

And not breathing.

He dragged her to the edge of the concavity. Laid her down.

She remained still for a moment.

Still and lifeless.

And The Joker watched.

For a time.

Certainly longer than he'd ever considered wasting on any other living thing he'd ever met.

Several handfuls of seconds at least.

And just as he was about to abandon her useless, stupid corpse, she sputtered.

Coughed.

And struggled to open her eyes.

"Harley?" he whispered, eyes aglow.

Locked onto her blue ones, all that were of her visible through the viscous covering she was awash in.

Saved her. He had saved her.

Jumped in and pulled her out and saved her.

When he didn't have to.

He _did_ care.

He did.

All it took was time.

And a vat of acid pain.

But he did _care._

"Mr. J."

Her whisper was raspy and broken.

It spoke of pain and love and need.

For him.

And it flipped his Joker switch.

Attempting to sear her with his loathing, the whitewashed Joker spoke, himself once again.

"Well, my stupid little bitch, did you finally get what you wanted?"

She smiled dreamily, ghastly through her chemical coating.

"Yes, Mr. J. You care about me. I know you do. You don't even ever have to say it. I know now."

He drew back, just a little, as if attacked, by her adoring declaration.

Then leaned forward once again, almost intimately and gifted her his most wicked grin.

Hissing through rotten, metaled teeth.

"Harley, my dear, if I ever once decide I care for you at all, I'll strap that perfect ass of yours to a rocket and shoot you straight to the moon."

Unable to contain herself even through the pain enveloping her chemical-coated body, she giggled.

Girlishly. Adoringly.

Well aware that it might flare his rage and lead to another violent outburst. Yet unable to stop herself.

The man himself stared at her incredously as she lay there, saturated in chemicals and giggling like a teenager.

Then he rose dismissively.

"Alright, let's get out of here then. I've ruined my best suit. And you look like hell."

And stomped off without looking back.

Harley Quinn staggered to her feet, slopping mess everywhere.

And stumbled after her puddin'.

"Whatever you say, Mr. J."

Ahead of her, the man known as The Joker rolled his eyes and groaned.

He was _never_ going to be able to get rid of her now.

Even if he wanted to.

* * *

 **And that's the end. Well, my end. Well, not really. There's never really an end, only the place where the storyteller stops writing, right? ;)**

 **Anyway, thanks to Fra-Chan-18, asantos11300, and CrystalFalls1987 for your reviews.**

 **Thanks also to Jenny Heirden, Kingdomfan09, and Wake Up and Live for adding your support to this story.**

 **Thanks to everybody who read and I hope you enjoyed!**

 **Happy reading, of anything! :D**


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